Life In the Fast Lane
by Lady Razorsharp
Summary: This is the story of an angel and her cowboy...the beginning was the end to their story. *Note the rating change*
1. The End

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Cowboy Bebop; Sunrise does. I do, however, own this original story.

Life in the Fast Lane

By the Lady Razorsharp

Prologue: The End

"_Asimov,_ _NO! _ That stuff is going to kill you!"

He was too amped to know his own strength, and the vial shattered in his fingers, spraying his face with glass and drugs. "_NO!_" Katarina shrilled as Asimov uttered a strangled curse.

Katarina watched in mute horror as Asimov's eyes bulged. She'd seen too many just like him not to know the effects of a BloodyEye OD. The added adrenaline from the chase had turned his handsome features into those of a sweat-drenched monster.

As she glanced out the windscreen toward the multitude of flashing ruby lights in the distance, a cold realization swept over her.  _I'll never see Mars,_ she thought, barely aware she spoke the words aloud.

Beyond Asimov's heaving shoulders, Katarina could see the green-haired cowboy in his faded-red fighter.  The bounty hunter was keeping pace with them, though Katarina guessed he had seen the ISSP ahead, too.  She almost smiled; the cowboy wouldn't get his bounty today.

The cowboy's reddish eyes searched her face, the question _Why?_ written in them as plain as day. His mouth was set in a grim line; an expression Katarina didn't think suited his face at all. She had liked it better when he smiled. In another lifetime, she would have loved to kiss that mouth, kiss away the frown that seemed so out of place on him. She wished he would smile at her just one more time, so she could take its sweetness with her into whatever lay beyond this world.

The girl who might have kissed him was long gone, now.  That young girl had been lost in the life she had chosen, a life that was supposed to have been full of excitement and glamour, and would now end in a cockpit of a stolen ship that reeked of sweat, drugs and fear.

It had all seemed so wonderful at the beginning…


	2. Kitty

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Cowboy Bebop; Sunrise does. I do, however, own this original story.

Life in the Fast Lane

By The Lady Razorsharp

Lyrics by The Eagles

Part 1: Kitty
    
    _He was a hard-headed man _
    
    _He was brutally handsome, and she was terminally pretty _
    
    _She held him up, and he held her for ransom in the heart _
    
    _of the cold, cold city…_

Io's desert heat discouraged all but the most hardy of life forms, whether they be plants, animals, or people. The humans that shuffled along Tombstone's dusty streets were a rawboned lot, leathery and tanned against the fierce sunshine that pummeled the satellite. Made up of outlaws and drifters trying to make a few woolongs at the long-depleted mines, the hardscrabble citizenry of Io were like hungry, rawboned dogs waiting for scraps that never fell.

Because there was little else to see, Kitty watched three old pokes that had taken refuge under the meager shade of the open-air café's tin roof.  She waved her fan ineffectively under her chin as one of the codgers quarreled over the cards another had dealt him, while a tired-looking waitress in a dirty apron served them frosty mugs of the local grog. Kitty felt her throat tighten; the beer tasted like old socks, but it was always ice-cold. She wondered if she should go introduce herself to the Geezer Brigade, but thought the better of it. If she made some good money tonight, she would treat herself to a big shaved ice with strawberry syrup.

_Though there's little chance of that,_ she mused, shifting from where she leaned against the doorframe of Miss Birdie's Bathhouse for Gentlemen. Business had been achingly slow of late.  As a result, the girls lounging listlessly on the parlor furniture behind her had set to complaining in loud, whiney voices, their accents borne of a hundred cultures that had long been confused by mankind's exodus from a shattered Earth.

"There's no good men in this town anymore," groused Maria, a thin Hispanic woman in a red satin chemise trimmed with black lace, who looked far older than her thirty years. 

"There never were any good men in this town," volleyed Angelique, a Creole with café-au-lait skin and a bleached blond weave that fell in ringlets past her waist. She plucked at the limp organdy ruffles of her pink babydoll pajamas. "Don't act so disappointed."

Samantha, the blue-eyed blonde that customers got when they asked for 'the girl next door', moaned in protest from where she lay on the antique sofa.  "Will you guys shut up?" She flapped the hem of her aqua silk chemise, exposing her matching bikinis. "I'm trying to think of something cold, and you're breaking my concentration."

"Like skinny dipping in a tub full of ice cream," Kathleen gushed, her apple-green eyes lighting under the sweaty mass of coppery hair piled on top of her head.  Her skintight Kelly green halter and hot pants were soaked, and she sighed heavily. "Doesn't that sound lovely, now? Ice cream, mmm, all over."

Chantal's deep chocolate skin glistened with a sheen of sweat that darkened the champagne satin of her lace-trimmed slip. "Kitty, get away from the door," she called from the entrance to the hallway.  "You're blocking the breeze."

Kitty turned her head, glad she had pinned her brown waves up off her neck.  "The only breeze is the one you're making with your flapping mouth," she shot back, her Baltic accent thickening with annoyance.  "So shut up already, all of you. We all know it's hot."

On cooler afternoons, Kitty's words would have signaled the start of a yelling match, but today they brought a few half-hearted calls of  "screw you," and little else. It was too hot even to fight, something that rarely happened with the volatile group. 

It was no use; standing in the doorway only felt as if she were staring into an oven, and Kitty snapped her fan shut.  _Maybe Maria was right._  She scanned the street one last time, and prepared to go back inside.  Perhaps there was enough change left in her pocketbook for a small shaved ice…  

That was when she saw him, coming towards her out of the shimmering heat waves like some dark-haired desperado out of a long-forgotten movie.

A man in a long black duster was walking up the street with strong, measured steps, his eyes hidden from the harsh sunlight by dark glasses.  As he drew closer, Kitty shaded her eyes to get a better look at him.  He was tall and tanned, with long legs clad in black jeans.  His white shirt hung open to his waist, revealing a set of washboard abs that gleamed with sweat.  _Eh, not bad,_ she mused. This man was a lonely cowboy, down to the spurs on his boot heels, and lonely cowboys were just her type.

Kitty put on her sexiest smile and opened her fan again.  She shrugged off one strap of her curve-hugging ivory slip and loosed her hair so it brushed her shoulders.  "Hey, handsome," she called out, moving her fan in long, languorous waves.  "You look so hot and tired. I was just about to take a nice cool bath. Why don't you come in here and join me?"

The man turned toward the sound of her voice. He smiled, revealing teeth that gleamed white in his brown face.  "And how much would this cool dip set me back, little girl?"

Shifting her weight to thrust out one rounded hip, Kitty gestured him closer with her fan.  "We can talk about it over a beer," she suggested, placing one hand on her hip, then letting her hand slip slowly down the tight fabric to the lacy hem. "How about it, handsome?"

He clanged up onto the sidewalk, lifting a hand clad in fingerless leather gloves to his face, where he removed his sunglasses in the shade of the porch.  When he spoke, his words were an easy tumble of Russian syllables. "Aren't you a little underdressed to go out drinking, little girl?" he breathed, his brown eyes turning into chips of onyx in the shade.

Kitty gasped.  _He must have heard my accent!  _"Where did you learn Russian?" she blurted, switching to the language she hadn't spoken since her _baba_, her grandmother, was alive. _Since the day I fought with Grandfather and left home…_

"My mother, God rest her soul, she taught it to me. She refused to speak English."  He offered her his arm.  "Let's go for that beer," he gestured with a jerk of his chin back toward the café.

"Are we going to talk business or pleasure?" Kitty teased, slipping her arm through his. 

He grinned. "Both," he said in English.

Six hours later, Kitty and her desperado cowboy, who had given his name as Asimov, still hadn't discussed the terms of their business transaction. When she tried to broach the subject, he'd merely said, "We've got plenty of time for that," and bought her the first of many beers and bloody mary's. The two of them struck up a conversation with the three card-playing codgers, and as long as Asimov was buying drinks, the old men kept telling stories of their lives as construction workers for the Gate Corporation. Kitty had been trying to teach them the words of an old Russian drinking song, but she herself was too drunk to remember the words. They had all collapsed in laughter, and Kitty was beginning to see spots when she felt Asimov's fingers against her face.

"Come on, Katia," Asimov said gently, using the Russian diminutive of Katarina, her real name. "It's time to go."

"Oh, so soon?"  She looked around and saw the three old men passed out and snoring.  "Guess some people just can't hold their liquor."

Asimov smiled and helped her to her feet.  When she tottered and fell back into her chair, giggling like a madwoman, Asimov knelt down and removed her high-heeled slippers.  "We still have to talk business, remember?" he reminded her in English.

"What's that you say?" She didn't like standing up; it made her head hurt.

"Business, little girl."  Asimov swung her up into his arms, and she curled into his embrace.  "How much are you going to charge me to put you to bed?"

"Oh, that," Katia sighed, finally remembering that she knew how to speak English.  "I'm expensive; I don't think you can afford me," she said airily.

"Oh, I can't?" They reached the door of the bathhouse, and he set her down long enough to open the door.  "Try me."

"Five hundred thousand woolongs a night, plus expenses." She leaned on his arm as they stumbled through the doorway.  "I only eat strawberries and cream, Beluga caviar, and Dom Perignon."

He chuckled. "Is that all? That's a bargain." Asimov nodded to the other girls, some of whom were entertaining men who looked as if they had been scraped off the sidewalk.  "Evening, ladies."

"Hey," yelled Chantal, tugging on Katia's other arm.  "She's drunk! She can't tell a woolong from a parking ticket right now; how's she supposed to know you paid her?"

For all intents and purposes, Asimov ignored Chantal, choosing instead to address a wide-eyed Kathleen who was coming down the stairs in a towel. "Hey, honey, do me a favor; send up a bowl of strawberries and cream, a jar of your finest Beluga caviar, and a bottle of Dom Perignon, well chilled?" Asimov swung Katia up into his arms again and carried her up the stairs.  "Just put it on my tab."

"The hell you say?" Chantal glowered up at the duster-clad back that retreated into the shadows at the top of the stairs as Kathleen scurried out of the way.  "We don't have any of that fancy shit here! The hell you think this is, the Neptune Gardens?"  When that elicited no response, she called after Katia, "Kitty! If Mr. Fancy-Ass starts breaking shit up, you give a shout!"

The only response was the slamming of Katia's door.


	3. Good Looks and Charm

Disclaimer: I don't own Cowboy Bebop; Sunrise, Inc. does. I do, however, own this original story.

Life in the Fast Lane

By The Lady Razorsharp

Part 2: Good Looks and Charm

He had a nasty reputation as a cruel dude

They said he was ruthless, they said he was crude

They had one thing in common, they were good in bed

She said, "Faster, faster! The lights are turnin' red"

--The Eagles

"Asimov—" 

Katarina bit her lip as he swung around to look at her, his dark eyes taking in her curvaceous form seated on the edge of the bed in her chemise.  He raised his eyebrows at her.

Her voice sounded very small and timid to her ears. "You're sure this is going to work?"

Irritation crossed his handsome face for a moment as he approached and laid his hands on her shoulders.  "Katia, don't worry. What have I told you these past few days?"

"That I should just act natural and everything will be fine," Katia repeated, feeling like a schoolgirl who hadn't studied her recitation. 

"What else?"

She sighed.  "That in perfecting a con, one only has to follow one simple rule: Do What You Know."  Her head fell back to look him in the eye. "I'm just nervous, Asmiov, that's all. I've never done this before."

"Of course you have, _dollinka_." Asimov was the picture of longsuffering patience. "Look. Think of it as just another night back at that rathole of a brothel, and he's just another john. You've done that lots of times, right?"

Katia frowned. "But—"

"Just think of it that way and it'll be no sweat."  He caressed her tousled brown waves. "Okay, time to get ready. Our 'client' will be at the Silver Swan in half an hour, and I've arranged for him to meet us at the bar."  He brought her to her feet and pulled her against his lean body. "Wear your red dress, the one I bought you on Venus. And the stockings with the seam down the back…" Asimov's fingers traced an imaginary line up the back of her thigh, lifting the hem of her chemise as his hands continued their upward caress.  "You'll be making me crazy every minute, just watching you," he growled in Russian before kissing her roughly.

After a moment, they stepped apart, chests heaving.  Between breaths, they could each hear the other's heart racing in the silence. "See you soon," Asimov whispered, nipping gently at her nose.

Breathless, Katia nodded.  With a swish of his leather duster against the sill, Asimov was gone.

Her knees gave out as soon as the door clicked shut, and Katia stumbled backward to sit down hard on the bed. She suddenly felt sick, and dry sobs kept tearing at her throat. One hand flew to her mouth, but whether it was to keep a scream or her lunch in, she wasn't quite sure. Asimov had said it before, that this was the big time.  One wrong move could mean disaster. 

She forced her hand away from her face. "Pull yourself together, Katia," she murmured to herself in Russian, running her fingers through her hair.  "Like he said, it's just another night. Nothing to worry about."  She rose and went into the bathroom to fix her makeup at the poorly lit mirror, then arranged her hair in her customary soft, shoulder-kissing waves. She took off her chemise, and then shimmied into the skin-tight red vinyl dress and pulled on the stockings, making sure the seams were plumb-line straight. The red vinyl boots, like ruby slippers nestled in their shiny black box from Allman's, zipped to mid-calf, and she retrieved her matching clutch from the dresser.

Katia turned to survey the pathetic little room; the bed was a shambles from their exertions that afternoon, and last night's Chinese takeout was congealing in greasy white boxes on the rickety table. She'd have to leave the chemise behind, since they would have to split right after tonight's business. _Oh, well,_ she thought to herself, shrugging her bare shoulders, _Asimov can buy me a new one with the money we'll get tonight._  After applying one last coat of ultra-shiny red lipstick, Katia smiled bravely at her reflection and left the room.

The clock in the lobby was chiming six-thirty as Katia strolled into the bar of the Ganymede Silver Swan Resort. She could feel the stares of the men—and not a few of the women—as she walked calmly across the plush navy carpet.  Seating herself on a stool near the center of the bar, Katia turned to survey the crowd, making sure to keep her eyes moving.  In the corner, she spotted Asimov sitting at a table, drinking a glass of reddish beer.  He lifted his glass toward her, just another man appreciating a beautiful lady, and she nodded, just another lady acknowledging a man's attention. So, all was well, then.

There was a cough at her elbow, then a hesitant string of rehearsed Russian syllables. "Excuse me, miss, are you here alone tonight?"

Katia turned to see a middle-aged man in an expensive suit standing next to her.  His features, though perhaps handsome twenty years ago, had sagged into the folds of excess and domesticity, but his blue eyes were bright. The black hair caught into a ponytail at his nape was still glossy, if going a little gray at the temples. Even in the dim light, she could see the pale line on his finger where his wedding ring usually resided. _How quaint,_ she thought, and let the image carry her into a smile. "Yes, I am," she answered in English.

The man let out an explosive sigh.  "Oh, thank God, you speak English," he murmured under his breath.  "You must be Sabrina."

Katia swept her hair back from her shoulders, tracking Asimov's movements out of the corner of her eye as he strolled behind their 'client' toward the exit.  In less than twenty minutes—depending on how chatty the guy was—it would all be over. "I am. And you are—?"

"Johnson. Dick Johnson," the man smiled, his doughy face flushing.  Katia almost laughed out loud.  Had Asimov suggested the alias, or had Mr. Johnson come up with it all on his own?  She made a mental note to ask Asmiov later.

She put her hand in Johnson's, and he kissed it wetly.  "It's a pleasure, Mr. Johnson. Shall we have a drink before we…get down to business?"  She let her eyes shimmer at him from under the kohl makeup.  "I've found that it helps to, how do you say—break the ice a little."

"I agree," Johnson said, hiking himself up onto a stool beside her.  When he was settled, Katia placed her hand on his thigh under the bar. Johnson grinned like an idiot and whistled for the bartender.  "What'll it be, my dear? Perhaps a glass of champagne to toast this lovely occasion?"

"Well, I usually prefer bloody marys," Katia answered truthfully—probably the only moment of truth in the entire charade, she mused—"but I won't insult you and say no."  She squeezed his thigh, letting her fingernails rake against the fabric of his trousers as she pulled away.

Johnson turned the color of Katia's dress.  "Garçon! A bottle of your finest champagne!" He glanced at Katia, who was checking her lipstick in her compact. He nearly choked as she ran her tongue against her glossy lips and blew him a kiss. "And two glasses," he squeaked. "To go!"

"Just wait till you see this," Johnson grinned, trying to juggle the two crystal flutes, the 10,000-woolong bottle of champagne, and his keycard for the door.  "My company pays for it, though."

"And what do you do, Mr. Johnson?" Katia took the champagne from him; it was a crying shame that it would probably go to waste, but maybe she could grab it on her way out. 

"I'm a consultant for the Gate Corporation. You know, number cruncher, bean counter, that sort of thing."  The keycard chimed. "Ah, here we are, my dear."

The door swung open to admit them into the suite, and Katia realized that the suite was bigger than the house she grew up in. The creamy white antique furniture was touched with traces of gilt, highlighting the elegant carvings on every surface. Springy carpeting the color of toasted marshmallows cushioned their steps into silence, and heavy brocade curtains shut out noise and light from the street fifteen floors below.

"Make yourself at home, my dear," Johnson offered as he shut the door behind them. "Have a look around. I'll open the champagne."

"Mm," Katia nodded, her eyes full of the beautiful room. The sunken sitting area held a loveseat and overstuffed chair upholstered in beige velvet, along with a marble-topped white iron table in the center of an oriental rug done in tans, browns, and cream. A squat bowl filled with tightly packed white roses graced the middle of the table, and an oil painting of a nude woman seated with her back to the artist hung over a faux fireplace. Katia sighed. _This room's wasted on idiots like him. I bet he doesn't even realize how beautiful it is._

A right turn at the edge of the entrance area led her down a short hallway to the bedroom. Katia gasped; the bed was huge, made with khaki-colored linens and fitted with a voluminous duvet of vanilla silk. Thick, luscious pillows covered in khaki velvet were corded with the creamy silk, which also formed the bullion fringe on the khaki velvet drapes. For a moment, Katia considered sleeping with Johnson, if it meant she would get to luxuriate in that wonderful bed.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" A voice purred in her ear, and Katia turned with a start to see Asimov at her elbow. "What do you say when we hit it big, we stay here for a whole week, and tear that bed to pieces?"

Katia glanced nervously toward the door, but her cheeks were pink. "How did you get in?"

"In his hurry to get his lovely guest inside, Johnson forgot to close the door all the way." Asimov smirked. "His kind is so predictable." 

Johnson's voice came floating in from the other room. "Be right there," he called.  There was a loud popping sound, a muted splash, and a muttered curse. "Just one more minute."

Asimov grinned at Katia and put a finger to his lips. He backed away into the closet, melting like a dark specter into the sea of white terry robes. One hand shot out and pulled the slatted door just to, where it looked like someone had carelessly left it that way. Just as the screen slid into place, Johnson appeared in the doorway.

Katia's heart began pounding, both from anxiety and the thought of her and Asmiov putting the plush mattress through its paces. So it was that Johnson noticed the flushed complexion and quickened breathing of his beautiful companion, and utterly misread it.

"Here, my dear. Have some of this. It'll relax you a little."  Johnson handed Katia one of the flutes and clinked it a little too loudly with his own. "To a lovely evening," he toasted her before draining his glass.  When Katia merely sipped at hers, he frowned. "What's the matter, dear? Don't like it?"

"But you've spent so much on it," she said, as if she were sorry to waste the liquor, when in reality it was the best champagne she'd ever tasted. "Here, darling, you finish it for me." She handed the flute to Johnson, who eagerly downed the golden liquid.

"Don't have to ask me twice." He let out a small burp. "Now. Let's get down to that business we were talking about, shall we?" Already in a haze of expensive booze, Johnson encroached on Katia's personal space and gave her a clumsy kiss. Katia nearly gagged when Johnson thrust his clammy tongue into her mouth, so she pushed away from him with a liquid smack of their lips separating.

She stepped over to the bed and sank gracefully onto the silk duvet. "Let's not waste any time, shall we?" _Anytime, Asimov!_

Johnson's expression was so comical, Katia was sure she could hear a _sproing!_ come from below his belt. "You're a girl who knows what she wants," he said breathlessly, first ripping at the buttons of his shirt and fumbling with the buckle on his trousers. "Strong women just get me _so_ excited."

"Ohh," Katia moaned, mostly for Asimov's benefit. "Well, then, come here, darling." She patted the bed next to her, and Johnson yelped like a trained seal. 

Down to a pair of blue-and-white striped boxers, sleeveless undershirt and navy blue socks, Johnson tensed to leap onto the bed, but found his progress hampered by something that had caught the back of his shirt. Turning his head, Johnson found that something to be Asimov's gloved fist. Eyes bugging, Johnson let out a shriek and promptly wet himself.

"Better hope your expense account includes carpet cleaning," Asimov grated, bitchslapping Johnson so hard that Katia heard Johnson's neck pop.  The tall desperado dropped the blubbering man to the floor only to grab him by the front of his shirt. "Where's your wallet, dirtbag?"

Johnson raised a shaky finger toward the other room. "On the table…in the hallway."

Asimov nodded to Katia, who sprung off the bed and dashed down the hall. Sure enough, Johnson's wallet lay on the foyer table, and Katia quickly thumbed through it. She removed the cash card and stuffed it down her dress, as well as the gold and platinum account credit cards. There was a picture in a plastic holder stuck in the wallet, and Katia glanced at it; it was Johnson, standing behind a seated, sweet-faced woman, who was holding a toddler girl on her lap. A young, dark-haired boy stood at his left, and they were all smiling.

She felt a sharp pang of guilt as she stared into the faces of Johnson's family, but it swiftly turned to anger. She had never had a family like this. Johnson did, but chose to seek the company of hookers.  _Bastard. I hope Asmiov beats the shit out of him._

Asimov appeared at the entrance to the hallway. "Did you get it?"  At her nod, he thrust out his hand, palm up. "Gimme the cash."  Katia put the card in his hand, and his eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch as he glanced at the readout.  "Heh. I'm in the wrong business; if this is just the expense account for idiots like him, I wonder what his take-home is."

"I almost feel sorry for him," Katia mused, remembering the picture. "He was so gullible."

"Don't start with the sob routine," Asimov growled as he pocketed the card. "He deserved what he got." The tanned face split in a feral grin. "You, however, were fantastic. I almost pushed that fat fuck out of the way and jumped on you myself." He took Katia's face in his hands and kissed her breathless. Now that it was Asimov's tongue thrust between her lips, Katia had no qualms about responding in kind.

After a few dizzying moments, Katia pulled away. "Mm. Asimov." She put her hand against his chest and pushed gently.  "We should go." 

 "Come on."  He took her hand and led her toward the door. As they passed the hallway, Katia caught a glimpse of Johnson, lying facedown in a pool of blood.

Horrified, Katia tried to slow down, but Asimov dragged her through the doorway.  "What did you do to him?" she hissed.

Asimov waved her question away. "I broke his nose; it bled like a bitch. He'll wake up stuck to the damn carpet. I just hope they get the stain out before we come back, or I'll complain to the manager."


	4. Ticket to Ride

Disclaimer: I don't own Cowboy Bebop; Sunrise Inc. does. I do, however, own this original story.

Life in the Fast Lane

By The Lady Razorsharp

Part 3: Ticket to Ride

_Eager for action and hot for the game   
The coming attraction, the drop of a name…_

--The Eagles

Smoke curled lazily against the ceiling as Asmiov sat propped against the headboard, Katia draped across his body.  Neither of them paid attention to the images that flashed soundlessly across the television screen, the bluish light casting shadows in the drifting smoke. With the glowing end of Asimov's cigarette the only other light in the room, Katia slipped into a light doze in the pre-dawn silence.

She dreamt of her grandparents, she dreamt of her co-workers at the brothel. Again she saw Johnson, the poor unfortunate mark, lying in a pool of blood from his broken nose. Her dreams slipped into the future, where she saw herself in a mirror, her abdomen rounded with child.  The serene expression on her face reminded her of the Madonna in the old Orthodox church she had gone to as a child.

Then her dreams changed; became darker and full of dread. Images came faster now, ones of a hurried flight to…somewhere. Someone was chasing them. Restlessly, she stirred in her sleep, and Asmiov's hand strayed to her tousled hair.

Katia dreamt on, and found herself face to face with a lanky stranger with emerald hair and mismatched garnet eyes. Asimov tugged viciously on her arm, pulling her away from the stranger, who raised a gleaming cannon of a weapon. As they ran, gunshots echoed through her dream world. In slow motion, she glanced to her left to see Asimov slumped against a wall, his eyes frozen wide, and a bullet hole in his forehead oozing blood.

Her breath stolen from her by horror, Katia let go of Asimov's lifeless hand. Too late, Katia realized they were high in the air, and she caught a glimpse of the stranger's distraught face as she fell. The ground rushed up to meet her.

"Mmphf," she grunted, as her muscles jerked her out of the dream. Asimov shifted under her, and she sat up with a hand to her aching forehead. Her blood pounded in her ears, and it took a moment for her vision to adjust to the pulsating light from the television. "What time is it?" she mumbled in Russian, her addled brain groping for the words that came easiest.

"It's 2 am," Asimov answered quietly, also in Russian. Smoke poured from his nose as he glanced at her.  "You okay, _dollinka_?"

Katia rose from the bed, the light painting her nude body with splashes of blue-white. "Just had a nightmare, that's all."  She went into the bathroom and flicked the switch, screwing up her eyes even though the ancient fixture cast only a feeble glow. "Please tell me we have some aspirin in here."

"Okay. 'We have aspirin in here, Katia.'" Asimov chuckled and stubbed out his cigarette. He reached beyond the ashtray and grabbed a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels, then took a long pull.  He swallowed with a grimace and held the bottle out to Katia. "Here, have some of this. It's for…what do they call it…medicinal purposes."

Groaning, Katia gave up the search and walked back into the bedroom, her hands pressed against her head. "That's what gave me the headache in the first place."  She slid back onto the bed and turned away from the flickering television, hands over her eyes. "We need some food."

"We need money, you mean." Asimov mimicked the voice of a stuffy old professor he once had before he dropped out of school. "Money is a unit of agreed value that is exchanged for goods and services."

"Shut up, Asimov." Katia groaned, trying to curl into a ball. "My head hurts."

Grabbing Katia's bare shoulder and flipping her on her back with a sudden, rough movement, Asimov poured whiskey into the mouth Katia had opened to yell in protest. "For medicinal purposes!" he boomed, as Katia gurgled and gagged.

When he let go, she vomited over the side of the bed.  Her nose and mouth on fire from the liquor, Katia blearily glanced up at Asimov, who was in a rage. "Asimov, I'm sick," she whined, hating herself for her pathetic tone.

"You're not sick!" He tossed the bottle away, where it crashed against the wall. Heedless of the indignant yell that came from the other side of the thin partition, Asimov grabbed Katia by the hair and brought her face close to his. "Look, you want some food? Go out and walk the street if you want money for food. We're broke." He let her fall back to the bed, glaring at her as she curled into a sobbing ruin. "Put on one of those dresses I bought you. Maybe then you can get some rich guy to buy you some food."  He sat heavily in the straight chair next to her side of the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Maybe he'll take you home and give you lots of nice things," he added mournfully. "Pretty things.  Ribbons for your hair. A house on Mars with a maid and a butler."

Katia shook her head, which only brought another wave of nausea. "Asimov, don't," she whispered.

"Maybe one of those stupid French poodles you wanted, remember?" Asimov's voice was thick with tears. "When we saw that lady walking her stupid dog in the park on Venus, with little diamonds on the leash."  He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with sobs. "I'm no good, Katia. No good at all. You'll starve to death because of me."

Her heart breaking, Katia turned to face him. "No, I won't. Asimov, I don't want those things. I want to be with you."

"I'm no good," he moaned. "Papa said I was no good from the day I was born."

"Asimov, come lay down with me. Let's forget about this." She slid over to make room for him, and then patted the mattress. "Come on. It'll be all right."

Like a child, Asimov crawled into bed next to her, and she held him tightly. He was still crying, his half-formed apologies tumbling out half in Russian and half in English.  Softly, Katia began to sing a Russian lullaby, and Asimov's taut frame slowly relaxed into sleep.

Light was pouring in when Katia jerked awake again—though this time it was from the sound of the door crashing shut, rather than a reaction to a dream.

"Get up, lazybones!" Asimov appeared in her line of vision, though it took Katia several tries to bring him into focus. He was holding a small brown paper bag that wafted delicious smells. Katia knew she should have torn into the bag like a ravenous wolf, but the smell of food turned her stomach.

"Where did you get money for food?" Katia asked, sitting up. She clutched the sheet around her with one hand, and her forehead with the other.

"Eat,"Asimov commanded, digging into the bag and pulling out a ham and egg sandwich with cheese on a cinnamon-raisin bagel. He waved it under her nose, and she snatched it from his hands. "And drink some of the coffee, too," he ordered, moving to the closet and throwing the doors open.

"Where did you get the money to buy food?" Katia asked again, between bites of bagel and sips of hazelnut-vanilla coffee. A horrible thought gripped her, and she nearly dropped the hot coffee in her lap. "Asimov, you didn't—you didn't do anything—like those perverts—"

Asimov grinned at her. "Don't be foolish. Playing the whore is _your_ job, Kati, not mine."  He turned back to the closet as she meekly finished her sandwich. "We're getting out of this dump. Get some clothes on."

"Asimov, I want an answer." Katia crumpled the paper and put it in the empty coffee cup. "What's going on?"

Like a schoolboy with a secret, Asimov flopped down on his knees, elbows on the mattress. "For the amusement of her Highness, the Grand Duchess Katerina. Observe: Nothing here." He pulled up one of his jacket sleeves. "Nothing here," he noted, showing her that his other sleeve was empty as well. "However…" One fingerless-gloved hand reached behind her ear, and came back with a small vial of blood-red liquid. "Ah! Voila!"

Katia laughed. "What is that, cranberry juice?" She shook her head. "You're so silly sometimes, Asimov."

In answer, Asimov made a face and balanced the vial between his nose and his top lip, like some glassy red mustache. "Nnn?"  
  


 Katia laughed again. "Be careful or your face will freeze like that," she warned him, waggling a finger like her grandmother used to do.

His face suddenly turned serious, and the vial dropped into his hand.  He leaned in conspiratorially. "What if I told you that selling this would feed us for a week?  And not just Rocket Noodles and Pippu; we're talking your Beluga and Dom Perignon."

"I'd say you're probably crazy," Katia nodded without hesitation. 

"Well, you'd be wrong, as usual." Asimov rolled the vial in his hand, making it wink in the sunlight. "This is Bloody Eye, a very pure form of a powerful stimulant. To get the biggest high, the liquid is put into a special dispenser and sprayed directly into the eye."

Katia shuddered. "That's disgusting. I hate getting anything in my eye. Imagine doing it on purpose!"

"Imagine getting the biggest high of your life," Asimov countered. "A rollercoaster ride, winning the lottery, and the best sex you've ever had, all in this little glass tube." He tossed it the air and snatched it up again. "People will pay anything for that. All we have to do is give it to them."

_…They knew all the right people, they took all the right pills_

_They threw outrageous parties, they paid heavily bills…_

At first, Katia had been skeptical of selling the Bloody Eye. Asimov said he had run into someone, a friend of a friend, who turned him on to selling the potent drug, and it wasn't long before he and Katia had a steady supply of the little vials. The premise was almost as easy as their previous cons: Asimov spread the word that they were throwing a little party. Katia would pass around a tray of the little vials as if she were handing out canapés, leaning over to give the guests an eyeful of a different sort. The men—and sometimes women—would tuck cash cards down Katia's dress, then one by one, go into the bathroom to enjoy their purchases.

Katia never got used to how they looked when they came out, their eyes bulging and bloodshot, their pupils a mere pinpoint dot in the center of a constricted iris. When they were all gazing with wonder at their fingers or climbing the walls, Asimov and Katia quietly packed up the party and left.

"No guns. No shouting. No blood. I love it!" Katia exclaimed one evening as they toasted their success. First sipping from her champagne glass—alas, not Dom Perignon, the sommelier had said they were fresh out—Katia snatched up a triangle of perfectly toasted white bread and spread it thickly with inky black pearls of Beluga caviar. Her eyes lit up as the salty beads burst in her mouth, and Asimov laughed.

"It's easy to sell people things they want, isn't it?" He cut a thick piece of meat from his steak and chewed it with relish. "Much easier than trying to mug someone. That seems so…common."

"Very," Katia agreed, polishing off her toast and licking the sticky beads from her fingertip. She dug her spoon into a bowl of ruby red strawberries; the walnut-sized fruits were nestled perfectly in a snowdrift of sweet white cream. The juice from the fruit burst from the flesh, staining the cream a brilliant pink, and it reminded her of their clients' bloodshot eyes. Frowning, she put her spoon down. "Asimov…can…could anyone die from doing Bloody Eye?"

"Oh, probably," Asimov remarked, wiping his face with a linen napkin. "But we'll be long gone if that ever happens. It'll be their fault anyway, for being so stupid."  He cut off another cube of steak. "If you're worried, maybe I can arrange a little demonstration."

Alarmed, Katia stopped with the spoon halfway to her mouth. "What do you mean?"

"You and I could do it." He leaned in and waggled his eyebrows at her. "What do you say? Wanna ride my rocket to the moon?"

Katia bit her lip; the most she had ever done was smoke a few cigarettes and get drunk a few times. "I don't know, Asimov. I don't think this is a good idea."

Asimov shook his head. "How are we going to be good sellers if we don't know the product?" He thumped his hand on the table, making the flatware jump. "It's settled; we'll do it tonight. We have a few days off, so we'll have some time to recover."

Katia nodded, fear squeezing her insides so hard that she lost her appetite.

_There were lines on the mirror, lines on her face_

_She pretended not to notice, she was caught up in the race_

_Out every evening, until it was light_

_He was too tired to make it, she was too tired to fight about it…_

Nervously, Katia held the dispenser up to her eye. In the very middle was a vicious-looking needle that would concentrate the spray, and she instinctively pulled back. Asimov pushed her head closer to the dispenser, and Katia fought to keep from jerking her head back again.

"No, no! You've got to be closer, or it'll just run all over your face and make a huge mess." Asimov took the dispenser from her and demonstrated holding the vial at the proper distance. "Like this. Now you try."

"My eye doesn't want it to be that close," Katia snapped.

"Katia, you could have done it and have come down off the high by now," Asimov groaned, exasperated. "Just do it, or I'll hold you down and do it myself."

"All right, all right!" Katia held the vial to her eye, knowing she was in the correct position by how much her nerve endings were screaming _Danger!_ She pressed the button, and an eye-stinging spray flew to cover her vision with a red haze. She gasped involuntarily as the drug swiftly took effect.

"Quickly, the other one," Asimov coached, and she did as she was told. This time it was easier to get close to the cornea, and she sprayed the stinging fog into the other eye. When she turned to watch Asimov do the same, the world went by in a heart-pounding series of drawn-out moments: vial in hand, hand lifted to face, body going rigid with intoxication. The empty vial fell from Asimov's fingers in slow, slow, slow motion, its glass surface glinting in the light as it fell to the carpet. With pinpoint irises, Asimov reached for Katia, and they fell into the depths of an ecstasy that stretched their sanity to the breaking point.

The light was laser-bright against her tortured eyeballs, and Katia rolled over with a moan. Asimov wasn't next to her, and for a moment, she felt around in a blind panic, groping like a sightless person in an unfamiliar place. "Asimov," she croaked, covering her eyes with one hand and slapping the mattress with the other.

A noise in the bathroom drew her attention; it was the sound of retching. There was a cough, then a flush, and the sound of water running in the sink.  "Katia, are you awake?"

"Asimov," she breathed in relief. "I can't see. Something's wrong with my eyes."  Hot tears stung like needles of agony against the inside of her eyelids, but the pain subsided after a few moments. As the tears leaked out, Katia opened her eyes to see Asimov, clad in nothing but an expensive pair of sunglasses.  She laughed through her tears, and he smiled.

"You look like hell," he quipped.

"So do you," she fired back.

"So what did you think? Was I right? Was it the best night of your life?" He threw himself down on the bed and peered at her over his dark lenses. "You were magnificent. You kept screaming for more."

Katia felt her way to the bathroom and turned on the shower. "I remember screaming, but I don't think it was for more."  She stepped into the shower and wet her hair. "I think it was more like 'stop the world, I want to get off!'"

"I suppose we could ask our neighbors," Asimov called back. "I'm sure they heard you loud and clear!"

When Katia got out of the shower, she found Asimov with his back to her. He was on the phone, making murmurs of agreement, and she drew her hand back to smack one firm butt cheek. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist: _No._  The person on the other end was someone important, then. Katia dropped her hand and continued to towel her hair dry, flipping channels on the deluxe holographic television.

She was peeling an orange from the complimentary fruit basket and watching a documentary about the Ganymede Sea Rat when Asimov hung up the phone. His face was solemn under the glasses, and she watched him carefully. "Here." She offered him a section of orange. "Vitamin C. It's good for you."

He nibbled the fruit right from her fingertips, and then kissed each citrusy fingertip in turn. "I called my supplier just now. Turns out he's dead. Someone shot him last night while he was coming back from the theatre with his girlfriend."

The fruit stuck in Katia's throat, and she swallowed hard. "My God. Do they know who did it?"

"No, but I have a pretty good guess as to who did it." Asimov took off his glasses. "The guy who answered his phone just now probably did."

"These drugs are such a dangerous business," Katia worried. "Maybe we should stop, Asimov. We don't want to end up like your friend."

Asimov scowled. "He wasn't my friend. He was my supplier."

"Okay, fine. So who is your new supplier?"

"I don't know." Asimov ripped the orange peel into shreds. "He's a Syndicate guy though. Apparently the Syndicate is trying to get control of their drug operations, and they're starting by rounding up the punk-ass dealers who skim off the top."  He dropped the orange peel and rolled onto his back, replacing his shades in their proper position. "That way they cut out the middleman. The Syndicate supplies, we deal, boom. No sweat. Even better, we get Syndicate protection if things get rough."

Katia finished her orange. "We had a few Syndicate customers on Io," she remembered. "They were always so mysterious. They didn't say much, but they tipped well."

"Just so." Asimov looked up at Katia. "They'll probably raise the price, too, since they're not making it in some backyard still. This is going to be a very smooth operation." He turned over and caught her hands in his. "Just think. Soon we'll be able to get out of this business for good. Then I'll take you anywhere you want to go."

Katia smiled. "Mars. I want to live on Mars."

"Why?"

"Because," she scolded, as if he were a simple child, "they're happy there. They have parks and festivals, museums and trees. Everyone smiles."  Katia nodded. "Yes. Definitely Mars. That's the place I want to be."

Asimov pounced on her, and she looked up into her reflection in his dark lenses. "As the Grand Duchess commands," he whispered, lowering his lips to hers.


	5. Staccato

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Cowboy Bebop; Sunrise Inc. does. I do, however, own this original story.

Life in the Fast Lane

By the Lady Razorsharp

Part 5: Staccato

Blowing and burning, blinded by thirst

They didn't see the stop sign, took a turn for the worse

She said, "Listen baby, you can hear the engine ring--

We've been up and down this freeway

Haven't seen a goddamn thing."

--The Eagles

As odd as it sounded, life settled into a predictable routine after the Syndicate took over. Katia loved to wander the rooms of the finely appointed flat she and Asimov had been given. They had a maid that came twice a week to clean and dust, but sometimes Katia gave her a thousand woolongs and told her to take the day off. The maid, an older woman who knew well the ins and outs of working for gangsters, took the money and reported her usual hours on her time sheet. To her credit, she never mentioned anything about teaching the young mistress of the house how to iron Asimov's shirts or how to make a bed with hospital corners.

In the evenings, Katia waited breathlessly for Asimov to come home from this meeting with security or that appointment with his superiors. When she heard his key in the door, she bounced up from her seat and rushed to meet him, welcoming him home as master of the house with a long, loving kiss. Sometimes they never got past the front door, and ended up making love in the foyer. Other nights they managed to drag each other into the plush comfort of the bedroom, tumbling among the silk pillows and linen sheets. Then there were evenings, like tonight, when Asimov told her to dress up; they were going out.

'Going out' didn't mean a date; it meant throwing one of their parties. Katia sometimes joked that they were like some demented parody of Amway, but tonight she sighed unhappily. Katia sighed and reached up to run her fingers through Asimov's tousled brown waves. "Do you know what day this is, Asimov?" she asked.

He held her tight against him and kissed her cheek. "No," he murmured against her skin. "Should I?"

She pulled back to fix him with a 'you-don't-get-it' glare. "It's been a year since we met. Don't you remember?"

He smiled and shook his head. "I don't stop to think what day it is anymore," he said. "Life goes way too fast for that. Besides, why do people need to do that, mark days and weeks and years? The only thing we need to be concerned with is that we're here together now."

Katia frowned. "Well, I think it's important. I was going to order Chinese and have it be just the two of us here tonight." She pulled away from him to stand at the window, worrying at her thumbnail with her teeth.

"What are you complaining about? It's always just the two of us here, every night." Asimov put his hands on her shoulders. "Now go put on your dress, _dollinka_. We'll be late."

They ended up going to not one, but three parties that evening. After each party, Asimov called his supplier, who sent someone to replenish their store of ampoules. Katia never saw the man's face; the syndies always told Asimov to drive to some deserted part of town and wait for a call. Then when the call came, Katia would see the black car, hidden in the shadows of some old bridge or tumble-down factory, and Asimov would get out and exchange the cash cards for more Bloody Eye. After a brief discussion, Asimov would get back in the car and drive away, acting as if the ampoules had simply appeared in Katia's lap. 

A week later though, something was different. Katia was wearing her 'maternity dress', an outfit that was half an inside joke between them, and half an ingenious way to conceal the large amount of Bloody Eye they were transporting to the party. On the way to the pickup point, Asimov was grim-faced and silent. He was sweating, and that alone seemed strange to Katia; Asimov's cool exterior had become his trademark in the business. The few of his co-workers that Katia had met always remarked that Asimov reminded them of some old film star who affected an air of danger just below the surface. 

"'You gotta ask yourself: do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?'" They would tease him and laugh, and Asimov would just smile. Katia wanted to try the joke on him tonight, make him laugh and release the thick tension in the air, but she knew better.

"When we get there," he gritted, "you watch me. You listen. And for God's sake, keep your eyes open." He flicked his gaze to her briefly, watching as she smoothed the rounded swell of her 'belly'. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"Hm?" Katia glanced down and saw her hand as it unconsciously strayed to the curve of her dress. "Oh. Sorry. It's just natural, I suppose."

Asimov turned his attention back to the road. "Whatever gets you off," he shrugged.

__

If you only knew, Asimov, Katia thought, watching the bloodshot eyes and sweaty face of her beloved. _What would you say if I told you I might have to wear this dress for real someday soon?_

He swung the car into a deserted parking lot in the shadow of an overpass. The spiky forest of disused lightpoles bristled against the topaz glow of city lights in the night sky. Traffic noises from the overpass were muted in this desolate stretch of cracked, weed-grown asphalt, making the clump-clump of car doors seem loud in the expectant silence.

Asimov pressed something cold and hard into her hand below the view of the windshield. "Here. Don't shoot yourself in the foot."

Katia swallowed a gasp as she looked down to see a semi-automatic pistol in her hand. "I know how to use it," she retorted softly.

"Yeah, and you can't hit the broad side of a space cruiser. Just keep it handy." He opened the car door and prepared to get out.

He had given her a gun. He was nervous. Something was very wrong here, and panic got the best of her. "Asimov!" she hissed, grabbing at the hem of his duster. "What are you going to do?"

He leaned back in and stuck his finger in her face. "Don't. Blow. This." He grabbed her chin, fingers digging into her cheeks. "Do you hear me?"

She yanked away. "Fine. Go get yourself killed, if that's what you want."

He grinned. "I love you too, _dollinka._"

In the glare of headlights, Katia watched as Asimov approached the contact. A large shopping bag changed hands, and the two conversed briefly. Then, in the blink of an eye, there was a bright flash and the contact spun away to fling himself on the hood of the car. Katia gasped as the headlights illuminated his face; it was a boy who couldn't have been more than eighteen. The boy's deep green eyes fixed on Katia's face for a moment, then glazed over with the sheen of death as he slowly slid off the fender.

A bullet pierced the windshield, and chunks of glass fell on the dashboard. Katia dove down in her seat, then stuck her head up for a brief moment and squeezed off two shots in the direction of the moonlight glinting off the other car's window. There were shouts and more sounds of car doors opening, but Asimov's gun barked twice. The shouts became pained screams, then gurgling rattles and heavy thuds.

Asimov threw himself into the seat and wrenched the passkey in the ignition. "Did you see that? Did you see the looks on their faces? They never knew what hit them, greedy syndie bitches," he snarled as they tore out of the parking lot.

They were on the freeway before she was sure that only words--and not her dinner--would come out if she opened her mouth to speak. "When were you going to tell me about this?" she asked. Her voice was cold and steady, and the sound of it surprised her.

"The less you know, the better," Asimov grated, manhandling the car across the lanes.

"No!" Katia spat. "This is my life too! I need to know if you're going to get yourself shot in the head one of these nights!"

Asimov's voice was full of unbridled fury, confirming to Katia that he had done Bloody Eye that evening before they left. "Just _shut the fuck up_, okay? You made me miss the fucking turnoff!" He swung the car in a wide, squealing arc, running the wrong way on the striped zone and clipping one of the sand-filled crash barrels. With a gritty splash of sand, they burst onto the offramp, scattering cars left and right as motorists tried desperately to get out of the way.

"That's just great, Asimov," Katia yelled. "Now everyone on this bloody freeway is calling the cops!"

"_Shut up!_ I'm trying to get us out of here!" He yanked the steering wheel and pulled into a dark alleyway. He killed the lights and shut off the car, not bothering to retrieve the key. "Pop the trunk and get out," he barked, as Katia pressed the trunk release button in the glove compartment.

"Asimov, I don't understand," Katia began, thinking it wise to gentle her voice a few notches. "Our life was just fine. Weren't you happy?"

Asimov pulled two suitcases out of the car and wrapped the shopping bag around the mass of clinking vials of Bloody Eye. "Here. You know what to do with these." Katia turned away to stuff the bag under the foam rubber 'pregnancy', and Asimov shut the trunk. "I thought you wanted to go to Mars," he said.

"I do," Katia nodded, smoothing her skirt back down, "but I was sort of getting used to our little place."

Grabbing up the suitcases, Asimov led her out of the alleyway. "You were getting used to being bossed around by these syndicate punks, who told you when to work, how much to sell for, and how much you were getting paid?" He shook his head. "Maybe I should have left you there, if you liked it so goddamned much. Maybe you'd find some rich bastard who'd pay to keep you in that dump." They reached the street, and he set the suitcases down on the sidewalk and smirked at her. "Yeah, I could just see some fat syndie fart making you his woman."

Katia sighed; her time at the bathhouse had taught her that men were little boys who liked to watch, and Asimov was no different. "So, where are we going?" she asked, glancing at the passing traffic. "The syndicate will be after us, and the ISSP isn't going to be far behind."

"I've got a buyer on TJ who's interested in the whole lot," Asimov breathed, as he held out one hand to hail a cab. "Thirty million woolongs for the whole kit and kaboodle, and we'll never see another drop of this stuff again."

A cab slid up to the curb. "And you're sure this is gonna work?" Katia asked.

"Where to?" the cabbie, a muscle-bound black man, called out the front window.

Asimov chucked the suitcases in the trunk, then helped Katia into the car as if she truly were eight months pregnant. "Spaceport," Asimov nodded.

"You got it." The cabbie glanced in the rear view mirror. "You guys married?"

Katia stayed silent, but Asimov grinned. "That's where we're going, to New Vegas. Gonna have one of those Elvis guys marry us, isn't that right, _dollinka?_" He leaned over and gave Katia a passionate kiss.

The cabbie laughed. "Congrats, my man. Looks like you got the cart before the horse, though, if you know what I mean."

Katia didn't smile. "Just a little," she murmured.

Nodding, the cabbie turned onto the spaceport road. "Same thing happened to me and my lady. Now I've got four babies running around tearing up the house. Still," he sighed, "I love 'em all. If my lady said yes, we'd have a dozen of 'em."

"Just turn off here," Asimov said, when they were in the industrial area around the perimeter of the spaceport.

The cabbie turned around. "You sure? It's a three-block walk from here, and I'm sure your lady won't like that a bit."

"She's fine," Asimov said, getting out and tugging Katia with him. "Get the bags, would you, dear?" he asked, and Katia's eyes widened as she saw him reach into his coat. When she saw the glint of the gun, she whirled and went to stand behind the open trunk lid.

"Hey," she heard the cabbie say, "what the--"

__

Pop, pop, went the silencer on the gun, and the shell casings tinkled against the pavement. An instant later, Asimov was beside her, pulling suitcases from the trunk. "Let's go."

Walking slightly ahead so Asimov wouldn't see her tears, Katia silently said an old Orthodox prayer for the four now-fatherless children, as well as the one forming under the mound of Bloody Eye.


	6. RedEyed Coyote

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Cowboy Bebop; Sunrise Inc. does. I do, however, own this original story.

Life in the Fast Lane

By the Lady Razorsharp

Part 6: Red-Eyed Coyote

_He said, "Call the doctor. I think I'm gonna crash."  
"The doctor say he's comin', but you gotta pay him cash."  
They went rushin' down that freeway,  
Messed around and got lost  
They didn't know they were just dyin' to get off_

_--The Eagles_

_"I'll catch up with you later. First I'm gonna go see Old Man Bull."_

_"Do you think you can really trust that old codger?"_

As much as Spike liked and respected Laughing Bull, he was beginning to think that maybe Jet was right this time. Spike had been sitting in Bull's teepee for over an hour now, watching as the old man sifted a pile of fine sand through his gnarled fingers. The sand had made four distinct puddles on the mat, which Spike guessed held some significance, but at this point, he didn't much care.

Besides, whatever Bull put in his peace pipe was giving Spike a serious case of the munchies.  On top of going without supper the night before and swiping the last can of Tsingtao for breakfast, it wasn't a good situation.

"This is real mystical and all," Spike began, "but you got anything to eat around here?"  His stomach let out an angry growl, adding its own two cents to the discussion. When even that elicited no response from the old man, Spike let out a puff of smoke. "I see."

Bull's voice was warm and flat, like the sun-baked Martian soil where he pitched his teepee. "You will find the red-eyed coyote in the zona norte at the far end of town. That is what I see."  The sand continued to drift through Bull's fingers; now that Spike thought about it (or it could have just been the ganja), the noise sounded vaguely like words whispered just out of hearing. "You, Swimming Bird, will meet a woman.  You will be hunted by this woman, and then…death."

_Swimming Bird_. Spike sort of liked the name Laughing Bull had given him after fishing him out of the canal as a gangly young boy. When Spike brought Jet to see the old man—for another time they needed help from a higher source than 'Big Shot'—Bull had called Jet 'Running Rock'. Jet's consternation at the name made Spike wonder if the two had met before, but Jet didn't act like he wanted to talk about it.

Spike smiled; he should have remembered that Bull and his 'sources' only operated on their own timeline, not his. "One more time," he breathed in response to Bull's prophecy.

Bull's eyes were deep pools of shadow in the confines of the teepee. He flicked his gaze toward his young friend. "What's that?"

"I was killed once before—by a woman." Spike handed back the pipe, then stood against the protest of stiff muscles.

"You take women too lightly, my friend," Bull observed, ever the voice of experience.

Spike reached for the tent flap. "On the contrary..."  He bent to duck through the door. "Catch ya later."

As he walked back to the _Swordfish II, Spike felt more than heard Bull's benediction: "Wankantanka guide his spirit."_

~******~

The actual trip to TJ took three days, what with asteroid- and planet-hopping to throw off unwelcome attention. After arriving at the run-down TJ spaceport, Katia watched the cargo ships docking at the freighter stop while Asimov rented a car under an assumed name.  

"Look at that one," Katia murmured, pointing at one of the freighters as Asimov stepped up beside her. The long, wedge-shaped craft was decorated on the side with a brightly colored painting of a woman in flowing robes. "I never knew cargo ships could be that beautiful."

Asimov caught Katia's arm above the elbow. "In case you've forgotten, we're here to unload this stuff, not gawk at scenery. Let's go."

With a sigh, Katia let herself be guided to the sleek little conveyance.  Once inside, she turned her face to the window; if he was going to keep up his silence—broken only by curt instructions since they arrived—then so would she. 

Asimov had been doing Bloody Eye twice and three times a day since the night of the shootout, and as a result, his emotions were swinging wildly; one moment he was a rabid wolf, the next he was sicker than a dog. The worst had come when Asimov, dripping sweat and goggling like a madman, had demanded she come to bed with him. When she refused, he had pulled her to the bed by her hair. Frightened out of her wits, she had lain there like a statue, her eyes clamped shut and praying for it to be over quickly. 

Still, she was worried. This was her life now, and if something happened to him, she would be alone. Tears sprang to her eyes despite the mistreatment of the past few days.  At least if she was with him, she mused, there was still a chance that they could work it out.  Being without him would be the worst thing of all.

The car nosed through the streets of TJ, passing crowds of people tanned from the UV rays coming through the dome. A group of children ran past the car, tossing a ball between them. A man selling snacks from bags strung on a pole ambled down the street, the white satchels bobbing to and fro. Somewhere, a voice bellowed, "THIEF!"  Moments later, a thin, fleet-footed teenager scurried past the car, his pockets bulging and a doughnut in his teeth.  Katia felt a keen sense of déjà vu; the people of TJ were much like those of Io, just trying to eke out some semblance of a life.

Asimov pulled the car into a side street, and then popped the gull-wing doors. "Get out."  Katia did as she was told, wincing at the pressure of Asimov's hand around her wrist as he led her down the street to a run-down bar. _El Rey_, proclaimed a flickering neon sign above the door.

_Looks like the king has left the building,_ Katia thought, as she followed Asimov through the swinging doors.  Feeling eyes on her, she glanced to her left; a trio of grizzled old men gawked at her as if she was the first woman they'd seen in decades.  _Sorry, I'm taken, she thought, primly placing her hand on the swell of her 'belly'. From the looks on their faces, it seemed as if even the one with the hearing aid got the message loud and clear._

His spurs chiming against the legs of the stool, Asimov sat down and drummed his knuckles on the bar. "Gimme a beer," he rasped.

"And I'll have a Bloody Mary," Katia added, speaking the code phrase.  "In fact, make it a double."

The bartender, a pasty-white apparition in the dingy light, filled a frosty mug with beer and set it in front of Asimov.  "I've got the vodka, but I'm afraid I'm fresh out of tomato juice."

Asimov reached into his pocket. "I'm sure there's at least ONE can in the back."

Katia saw the flash of the vial reflect in the bartender's pupils. "I'll check," the ghostly man deadpanned, turning to go into the storeroom with Asimov casually following a few steps behind.

The geezers in the corner were still staring at her, so Katia decided to amuse herself while she was waiting for Asimov to return. Turning slightly toward the group, Katia leaned forward and took a mouthful of foam from Asimov's beer. She could feel her breasts bulging over the low-cut neckline of her dress, and she suppressed a smile as the old coots whined like starving dogs.  Men were so predictable.

There was a scuffle of boots on the cobbles outside, as well as a series of thumps from the storeroom. The bartender's mangy cat, which had been lying asleep on the bar, leapt to its feet with a demonic snarl.  With the hair rising on the back of her neck, Katia surrendered to instinct and threw herself down behind the bar. An instant later, the windows exploded as half a dozen syndicate goons crashed through, guns blazing. 

_Asimov!_ Katia knew she couldn't spare a moment looking for him, or risk being shot herself.  Twisting up and behind her, she squeezed off two shots over her shoulder. The bottles on display above the bar showered her with broken glass, and Katia desperately tried to hide, keep from getting cut to ribbons, and buy enough time for Asimov to get back all at once.

_If he's still alive,_ said a tiny voice in her head, calling up the pictures of her dream.

_Shut up! _ She shoved the images back, hard, and continued firing. No doubt this was the 'retrieval squad' that the syndicate had sent out to reclaim their stolen Bloody Eye, and she clutched her cargo all the harder. The Bloody Eye, as dangerous as it was, held the key to their new life, and she would be damned before she gave _that up without a fight._

Gunfire had destroyed the pressurized spigot; bullets were flying through air humid with a fine mist of beer. As one of the desperadoes jumped through the broken front window, another with bloody holes in his back fell out the storeroom door, a wild-eyed Asimov right behind him. Katia's relief at seeing Asimov alive was short lived, as a tall skinny guy came at him with guns blazing. His perception teased to a fever pitch, Asimov seemed to see the man's moves before he made them. With a feral grin, Asimov jammed the syndie's gun back in his own face and shot him through the right eye.  Blood, bone, and brains splattered everywhere, and Asimov let the body fall to the floor.

There was no time to react to the gory sight, however, since Katia saw another syndicate goon taking aim at Asimov's back.  Her gun barked twice from her hiding place behind the bar, and the guy toppled over with a strangled scream. A movement at the window caught her eye, but she was too late to even scream as the last goon standing squeezed off a shot. With blinding speed that Katia knew was born of heightened senses, Asimov ducked to avoid the bullet, which thunked harmlessly into the already shattered wood of the bar. Asimov's gun boomed at close range, and the shooter fell backwards onto the street.

"Asimov," Katia hissed. "Asimov, we have to get out of here!"

Glancing left and right at the bodies of the syndies he had dispatched, Asimov began to laugh. "Holy shit."  He continued to laugh, boots clinking against the sparkling drifts of glass on the floor.  "Look at all these bastards, Kati. We killed them." He swayed drunkenly, grinning. "That'll teach them to fuck with us, eh?"

Katia struggled to her feet and moved toward the still snickering Asimov, keeping her gun trained on the bodies for anyone who might be playing possum. "Come on," she said sternly. "You'll be sick soon, and I don't want us stuck here when that happens."  She grabbed Asimov's hand and kept her pistol in the other, threading her way through the carnage with Asimov cackling like an idiot the whole way.  He was in no shape to drive, so she threw him in the passenger seat and slid in to the right-hand drive beside him.

After a moment, Asimov stopped laughing and doubled over with his arms around his middle. "Kati," he moaned, "Kati, we gotta stop."

No matter how much his behavior on the Bloody Eye frightened her, Katia couldn't bring herself to abandon him. She smoothed back his sweaty hair from his face as he began to sway back and forth like an ill child.  "We will. There's a gas station up ahead, we can stop there for a minute. You'll feel better soon."

_Just a little while longer,_ she told herself, as they pulled into the gas station. _Then we'll go to Mars, and everything will be all right._

~******~

Jet stood in the middle of the bar, surveying the aftermath of a symphony of destruction.  From his cursory look around, Jet could see that whatever had hit this place had hit it hard, like a tornado coming out of the sky without warning. Grimacing at the stiffening bodies scattered around the room, he stepped over a cat licking up a puddle of spilled beer and sat down at the bar. He checked his watch: 11:05 am. This bar looked like the kind of establishment that was open at 5—any 5. He peered over the bar and found an undamaged bottle of tequila.

"Presidente, huh?" He hefted the pristine bottle and pulled the cork. "Think I'll have some--on the house."  With a chuckle at his own half-joke, Jet took a swig of the expensive liquor.  The sound of tires squealing outside made him turn around, and he glanced at the door. "Hmm?" 

As Jet ducked out of sight behind the bar, two guys in shades and cowboy hats walked in with guns drawn. They, too, surveyed the devastation, and had much the same reaction as Jet.

Holstering his gun, the short_ vaquero whistled in awe. "Damn. Just look at this place. Asimov went berserk."_

The second _vaquero, a scrawny man who stood a head taller than his partner, faced the windows and leaned his elbows on the bar. "No joke. We gotta take care of him before the cops move in."_

Behind the bar, Jet stilled his breathing so he could pick up every word. He tightened his grip on the neck of the bottle.

"Maybe we should just let the cops deal with him," the first guy was saying. "As long as he's using that Red Eye on himself, you can't beat him."

His compatriot shook his head. "We got to. If we don't get that Bloody Eye back, we'll _all_ be twisting in the wind."

"Mebbe so, eh?" The first guy shrugged. The thought of facing off with someone fragged out on Bloody Eye wasn't too appealing, but the alternative would make dealing with Asimov look like a croquet match.  

As silent as the cat still licking the puddle on the floor, Jet stepped out from behind the bar and tapped the second guy on the shoulder. "Yo."

The guy had barely enough time to let out a confused "Uhhh?" when Jet whacked him in the head with the tequila bottle, the force of the blow breaking the bottle in half. As the man went down with lights out, the first guy uttered a weak scream and tried to scramble away, but Jet grabbed the fleeing _vaquero and put him in a headlock. The jagged edge of the broken bottle in Jet's hand loomed close to the man's face as Jet tightened his grip._

 "Tell me some _more_," Jet prompted, grinning wolfishly.

~******~

Flying over the TJ farmland, Spike glanced at the placidly grazing Holsteins. He supposed he should appreciate the pastoral scene of rolling hills and quaint farms complete with red barns and checkerboard silos, but all he could see were hamburgers on legs. "Man, I'm starving," he moaned.

As if to share in his misery, the _Swordfish II began to beep a 'low fuel' warning, and Spike patted the screen lovingly. "So you're hungry too, huh baby?" Unlike his own grinding stomach, which could go without food for at least a few hours longer, _the Sworfish II's_ gas tank would not brook running on empty; besides, it might jack up the injection, and Spike didn't have the woolongs or the time for a trip to Doohan's. There was a gas station up ahead that didn't look too busy, and he had just enough left on his cash card for a full tank. _No sense in both of us going hungry, _Spike mused as he brought the _Swordfish II_ in for a landing._

The Tsingtao was getting to him, though, so he decided to make a pit stop of his own. After completing the shutdown sequence, Spike popped the canopy and swung down from the cockpit, then headed toward the men's room. As he pushed open the graffiti-scrawled door to one of the stalls, the eerie tune he was whistling echoed from the worn walls. 

~******~

Asimov was making odd _hmph__, hmph noises as Katia finally pulled into a parking spot next to a sleek, faded-red fighter at the gas station. "Go on," she nodded, popping the gull-wing doors.  Asimov bolted without a word, banging his head against the door. _

"I'll go buy us some food," she called after him. "I know you'll be hungry." _Especially since your stomach will be empty in a minute,_ she sighed, as she watched Asimov stumble away across the concrete toward the toilet block. 

_This is the last time, _she repeated to herself, shutting the doors and walking over to the bank of vending machines. Sliding her cash card into the machine, Katia punched the code for Asimov's favorite chocolate bar. _We're going to get out of here. We're going to make it to Mars. We just have to do this one little thing, and then we can be free. _

Her fingers tapped the buttons for cup ramen, a preheated hot dog, canned coffee, sugar buns and tomato juice. She took a paper bag from a complimentary stash to hold her purchases, and continued her way down the bank of machines with her thoughts ringing in her ears. _The last time.__ Mars. We can be free._

~******~

Even through the red haze of vertigo that twisted at him, Asimov took one look at the battered stalls and knew he didn't want to put his face in one of the scrungy toilets. He ended up letting fly into one of the sinks, gripping the edge of the chipped counter for dear life as his stomach turned inside out. Sweat trickled down his back and the sides of his face, and he squeezed his eyes shut behind his sunglasses. Mercifully, the heaves stopped after a few moments, allowing him to catch his breath.  He grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and wiped his mouth with it, gasping and grunting.

_'Can you die from doing Bloody Eye?' she asked,_ Asimov thought bitterly. _I just wish I would sometimes, dollinka. Then this would be over and you'd be free. Even if you went back to that dirty hole I found you in, you'd be better off than you are with me._

Pulling down his sunglasses, Asimov checked his eyes in the mirror. The irises were their normal size, but the pupils were still a little dilated with the effects of the Bloody Eye, and lingering traces of redness at the corners of his eyes underlined that fact. Even so, the ache was beginning to gnaw at him again. The vial in his pocket sang a siren song that promised release from the guilt and the pain and the sickness. _Please, no more, one half of his brain screamed, while the other tried to drown it out with a buzzing that sounded like _yesyesyesyesyes___!  _

As he stood there listening to the turmoil in his own head, a toilet flushed in one of the stalls behind him. With a startled gasp, Asimov pulled his sunglasses back up to hide his bloodshot eyes. He reached into his coat pocket—not for the familiar smooth capsule of the drug, but toward the cold steel of his gun.

A tall, thin man in a cheap blue suit ambled out of the stall, and both men tensed imperceptibly. From under his unruly mop of greenish hair, the man swept his mismatched garnet eyes over Asimov. With the gun firmly in his grip, Asimov waited.

After a few heartbeats, the man stepped up next to him and began to wash his long-fingered hands.  "You know," the stranger said, eyes on his task, "it's better to just leave the water running."  He turned off the faucet and snagged a paper towel to dry his hands, and then stuffed the damp paper into his back pocket. "So you don't clog the drain," he threw over his shoulder as he walked out, whistling a haunting little tune as he cleared the doorjamb.

Asimov let out the breath he had been holding. He was sure those lanky limbs were much stronger—and quicker—than the man's laid-back drawl suggested, and the garnet eyes had flickered with recognition before going stone cold. _Danger here,_ his aura had whispered against Asimov's blazing brain.

_If I see him again,_ Asimov thought, letting go of his gun and reaching for the vial of Bloody Eye,_ I'll kill him._

~******~ 

Katia was on her way back from the vending machines when she collided with a tall, thin man in a cheap blue suit. "Oh!" she yelped, as the man's elbow caught the bag. The groceries tumbled out onto the pavement as the bag slipped from her hands.

"Oops!" The man turned and caught some of the items before they hit the ground, then stooped and gathered the rest scattered at Katia's feet. 

"Sorry," Katia found herself saying. _I guess I wasn't watching where I was going. I'm probably thinking too much._

The man—whose hair was an odd shade of green, she noticed—replaced Katia's purchases in her bag. Katia held the bag to her, determined that nothing get away again. "Thank you," she smiled, as the stranger nodded and began to walk away. Her smile turned to a frown, though, as she noticed that there was considerably more room in the bag than before the collision. "Uh, _excuse_ me," she snapped at the stranger's retreating back.

"Humm?" The man turned around, innocent as an angel—one with cheeks bulging out like a chipmunk, anyway.  At Katia's stormy frown, the man untangled the pre-heated hot dog from his mouth.

"Mmph. Hot dog," he muttered, gazing mournfully at the slightly damp morsel. _So close, and yet so far, said the expression on his lean face._

Katia was a little disgusted, but he reminded her of a rawboned stray, and she didn't have in her heart to be cruel. "Yeah, I can see that," she sighed, standing. "Just keep it." With her permission given, the man wolfed down the hot dog, grinning like an idiot and making noises of joy. _How long has it been since he's had a good meal?  Katia wondered. She caught herself; it wouldn't do to go around picking up strays, no matter how thin or lost they seemed. _Asimov. Think of Asimov, he's the one that needs you.__

To Katia's surprise, the man pulled out three boxes of food from inside his blue jacket. So that was it--he was an expert pickpocket. She ran back over the sequence of events: the bump, the scoop, the quick, long-fingered hands that mesmerized her with their grace and economy of movement. Katia sat stunned as the man continued to favor her with his Cheshire-cat smile. After a moment, she, too, smiled and gave a little laugh.

The man chuckled, one hand behind his tousled green head. "Sorry," he apologized in a smooth baritone voice, his garnet eyes twinkling with mischief. "My stomach just kind of took over my brain. It happens sometimes."

"Really?" Katia gave him a grin that said _uh huh, tell me another one!_ They laughed together, and Katia felt her weariness lift for just a moment.

~******~ 

_God, she's pretty, _Spike thought to himself as he attached the fuel coupler to the _Swordfish II. He stole another glance at the olive-skinned woman out of the corner of his eye and decided that the voluptuousness of pregnancy looked well on her. _Not beautiful like Julia, but still pretty.__

For her part, the woman seemed to have been sizing him up as well, as she walked to the car and put her purchases in the back seat. "Nice ship," she nodded toward the MONO racer.

Spike smiled. "Yeah, it's a real blast from the past. I've had it for ten years." Doohan hadn't actually come right out and given Spike the _Swordfish II_, but when Spike had gotten his pilot's license at 17, Doohan had told him to take care of the MONO racer. So far, he hadn't asked for it back yet. Pilot and machine were irrevocably tied together, and Spike knew that Doohan, being a flyboy himself, would never violate that relationship.

"It looks like it's been around," the woman said, and with a sudden rush of heat, Spike realized she wasn't just talking about the machine.

_She's _really_ pretty. _ "Guess you could say we've done some traveling," he nodded. Despite his conscience's warnings to the contrary, he couldn't stop himself from flirting with her. "I'm actually a traveling performer," he said, doing a little slight-of-hand and making a cigarette appear in his fingers.__

Her laugh was musical and throaty. "I can't tell when you're joking and when you're not."

A rueful laugh spluttered from Spike. "Yeah, I hear that a lot!" 

The woman's voice turned dreamy. "Ever been to Mars?"

 "I was born on Mars," he heard himself say. _To a mother I never knew and a father I barely remember,_ he added silently. 

"I hear they have everything there," the woman went on in richly accented words. "Not like here. There are parks and festivals, and people are happy there." She glanced at Spike for confirmation. "It must be a great place to live."

Spike rolled his eyes; if she thought Mars was paradise, she could have it. "Sure, if you're rich."

"Then I'm sure we will be quite happy," the woman murmured serenely, resting her hand on her rounded belly.

The meter on the fuel pump clicked off, and suddenly everything clicked into place in Spike's mind as well. Something about the guy in the bathroom had set his brain to whirring, and he finally knew what it was. The guy wearing sunglasses inside and spewing his guts into the sink was clearly in the throes of a Bloody Eye withdrawal. Spike had seen people like him back in the day, when he and Vicious headed up a cohort that raided upstart drug dens. _Asimov Solenson, the guy who ripped off a whole shitload of Bloody Eye three days ago. _That made this woman the 'sweet thing' Jet was talking about. _Damn. _

His face having lost all traces of the jester he was just a moment ago, Spike gazed at her with intense garnet eyes. "So," he grated, "you're planning on escaping to Mars, eh?"

The woman's head snapped up. "Huh?"

Spike kept his eyes on the worn metal of his MONO racer's wing. "Go ahead and run. But how far do you think you'll get?" __

The woman bristled. "Who are you?!" she hissed at him.

Spike swung around to face the woman with a flourish. The jester's grin had been replaced with the wolfish smile of a predator on the scent.  "I'm just an old-fashioned cowboy."

"You're a bounty hunter," the woman spat, her voice full of cold fury.

Spike put his conjured cigarette between his teeth. "Yeah, that's right."

"And you are after us."

"Your boyfriend is sick." Spike was in full bounty hunter mode, biting off each word and spitting at her. "He's a small fry; I don't bother with his type."

The woman's eyes flicked to the side for an instant. "A wise decision," she murmured, as Spike thumbed his lighter to life.

The cigarette had barely caught when a pair of hands clamped around Spike's throat, and both cigarette and lighter fell to the asphalt. Clawing at the hands that cut off his oxygen, Spike kicked and strained with the effort to escape.

A wild, raspy voice was in Spike's ear: "NOW who's the small fry?"

Precious seconds ticked by, and still the hands continued to crush the life out of him. Stars burst in Spike's vision, and he felt himself going limp. _Julia…_

"Yeahhhh," his attacker groaned obscenely, as the world drained of all its color in Spike's field of vision. He was barely aware that the woman stepped forward, her mouth moving in syllables he could only half-understand.

"Asimov!" she shouted sternly. "That's enough! Let him go!"

As if her voice had been the magic key to unlock the iron grip, the hands broke away. With the first quick breath of oxygen, color and sensation flooded back into Spike's brain. Though he landed awkwardly in a sitting position, Spike's pickpocket instincts kicked in, and his hands swiped through Asimov's coat on their way down. The world tilted, and Spike found himself lying flat on his back on the pavement, watching blearily as Asimov and the woman jumped into the car.

The woman glanced back at Spike, holding his gaze as he hovered at the edge of unconsciousness. "Adios, cowboy," she said softly, and Spike slipped into darkness.


End file.
